A Story of No Consequence
by Angel of Insanity
Summary: They meet because Harry hates interviews and hates hates hates Rita Skeeter and Pansy has a problem with heels and hose. And it all leads up to a wedding after the war, but there's lots of twists beforehand. HarryPansy.
1. The Beginning

**A Story of No Consequence**

**Author's Note**: I know I should be working on The Ties that Bind and not writing more Harry Potter. However, this idea got stuck in my head half way through classes yesterday and wouldn't let me go. I've learned, when the muse calls, that I've just got to run with it. This will be multi-chaptered and focus heavily on Harry/Pansy. Mentions of Hermione/Draco and Ron with some girl (she can pretty much be whoever you want her to be). I am in love with both Kurt Vonnegut and Chuch Palahniuk, so, the style is definitely a representation of that.

**Warnings**: There's lots of swearing, sometimes for no reason at all. There are also mentions of Catholicism (Christianity in general), God, Jesus, and the Virgin Mary in a less than reverent attitude; actually, there may be plenty of picking at several world religions as a whole before this is all over. Sex (nothing too graphic), drinking, smoking, and drug use will figure their way somewhere into the story at one point or another. If any of this is going to offend you or bum you out in any way, please don't read. This is post-war Potter, I claim no ownership, and you're not getting anymore disclaimers or warnings. Constructive criticism is always appreciated and flames will be ignored.

This is a new style and a new tone for me, bear with me while I adjust myself to it. Also, I do all the proofing myself; I try to do my best to edit everything, but there will be the occasional stylistic/grammatical/spelling errors. If I catch them, I'll make sure to go back and edit through.

Thank you for reading; I hope you enjoy the ride.

---

Say it with me, _Harry James Potter_.

If you say it fast enough, it almost sounds like Jesus. Okay, that's a lie, it sounds nothing like Jesus. Not even Hey-suez. That's how they say it in Mexico. But that's not the point. The point is that this kid, he's the fucking savior of the universe. Sort of like Jesus.

Wasn't there a James, half brother of Jesus? Half brother because, no matter what you Catholics say, Mary _got it on_ with Joseph after her whole nine months of the virgin birthing. Or something like that. Yeah, my dad's a carpenter and yours? Oh, He's just God, you know? Big guy, lightning bolts, floods, and plagues. Yup, my dad totally kicks your dad's ass.

I'll bet James hated Jesus for a long time. And then felt really bad about it after he died for all our sins. But that's not the point of this story. Mostly because the point is Harry Potter, The Boy Who Lived.

And he did live.

See, Harry'll always have one thing over you pathetic snots. No one, and I mean no one, can tell him that his mother didn't love him. Maybe when you meet up in a bar and you're drunk off your ass and you're pissed because he's the Golden Boy Wonder, you'll tell him that his father didn't love him. _Enough_, that is. And it could be the truth. After all, maybe James wasn't fighting off Lord Snake Snogger because he cared so much for his son. Maybe it was because he loved Lily so much that the very thought made his heart want to burst out of his chest.

Lily says "He wants to kill our baby. James, you can't tell him kill our baby. You _can't_, James." Then James, cocky and carefree, looks up and says "No, he's not going to kill Harry. He'll have to come through me first." It's funny because that's exactly what Voldemort does. Blasts James with an Unforgiveable and then marches up the stairs.

But you can't ever tell Harry that his mother didn't love him. Because Lily Evans Potter loved her son so much that it caused some crazy ancient magic to seep into his body and send the Killing Curse back upside overconfident Tom Riddle's head. And the bastard would have died had he not been so damn smart and hid pieces of his soul all around the world.

So, next time you want to wound the savior of the world, go for the gold. Tell him that Sirius Black, his pseudo-father figure of two years, loved Lily Evans more than he loved tormenting Severus Snape or ducking under bushes with Remus Lupin. Tell him that Sirius, because he was James' bestest best best friend, let James have at it without saying a word. Of course, he backtracks, and tells Lily all about his deep feelings after the honeymoon. She's pregnant by then with Harry but doesn't know it yet. Better yet, Lily Evans Potter doesn't know what to say. And then he made them make Peter Pettigrew, traitor extraordinaire, be the fucking secret keeper because he was afraid that something would happen and leave James bitter and heart broken.

You know that old _assume_ joke. Make an _ass_ out of yo_u_ and _me_. Black's assumptions got him a prison stint, a dead best friend, and a dead woman, whom he loved, who would have never left her husband. 

Now that'll make Harry cry like a little girl. Because it's not enough that he was orphaned, left with shit-for-brains relatives, and then expected to fulfill his destiny all the while being half lied to. No, you've got to let him know that through all the St. Potter martyrdom, _YOU_ are better than him. Better because the man he though was going to be the father he never had turned out to want to make it _James and Sirius_ all over again while worshipping those brilliant green eyes. The only part of him that was ever Lily's.

Then maybe you should go throw yourself under a train because you're that much of a worthless waste of space. Taking up my oxygen. My future child's oxygen. Bastard. Really. Your mom was cheating on your dad with so many men that she hasn't a god damn clue who your real father is. Chew on that amid shitty gin and tonics and stale peanuts.

This isn't an end, it's a beginning. To an end, of course. There's always an end somewhere, otherwise, the little fuckers would get depressed and cut themselves. That's not the point.

The point is that Harry Potter won the war. A bunch of people died. These people did not include Hermione Granger and Ron Weasley. God, the New Testament one of course, wouldn't have been that cruel. He took a couple of Longbottoms (there were only two left, _think about it_) and Bill-Fleur-Percy-and-Ginny Weasley. There are more, but, they're not too important to the story. Harry Potter won the war after four years and a bunch of dead people. Both sides. Trust me on this, I know.

Draco Malfoy didn't die. Which, surprisingly enough, figures into the story quite nicely.

Anyway. Harry Potter pulls off the savior thing better than Jesus could have ever hoped for. There's no crucifixion. No coming back only to ascend back into Heaven only to promise to come back if we've all been good boys and girls. No. Tom Marvolo Riddle, Lord Voldemort, Premire Snake Snogger, was Avada Kedavra'd upside the head and then Harry Potter made him explode into a puddle of goo.

Sue the man. He was aiming for daffodils but no one likes setting fire to pretty yellow flowers and pissing on them. Hermione would complain about hurting the environment. Instead, she turned away, crying too hard to complain, while Ron unzipped his pants. His own pants, not Harry's, and Hermione was crying too hard from _joy_. You know because He Who Shall Not Be Named was finally dead dead deeeeeeeeaaaaad in the ground. But, Harry unzipped his _own_ pants too and they pissed on the fire together. It was a manly thing. You won't find it in the history books.

Don't even try.

Just like that, there's lots of drinking. Because that's what people do when they celebrate the demise of the Wizarding world's Hitler. Which he was, except for the concentration camps and, let me tell you, those were in the making. Ask Bellatrix Black Lestrange. Oh, that's right, _you can't_, because she's dead. Ha!

But, after the drinking, there was need for order. Which is how Harry James Potter got stuck kissing babies and shaking hands and listening, eyes glazed over, while Hermione bickered with the new minister about his inane politics. He knew, Harry, not the minister, that if he didn't there was only one other alternative. Drink until he died from liver failure at age 29. Squirming, crying babies trump all. This is because liver failure sucks hard. And not the pleasant kind of hard either, perverts.

Like I said, this is the beginning. To the end...of the end. Of something. Not time. But to the wedding. And not Hermione and Draco's wedding because they never get married. Not that they don't fuck like bunnies and have a million children. Okay, just two. Because, they do. But they don't get married because Hermione thinks that marriage will make her something _less_ and Draco still gets nagging thoughts about _Mudbloods_ and _bloodtraitors_. So, in the end, it's better that they co-habitate and are married in every way except for the rings and the pieces of paper.

Ron does not have sex with his sister. Or Luna Lovegood for that matter because, in his mind, it's about equally disgusting. And because Ginny is dead. Instead he finds this nice girl who doesn't mind going down on him in semi-public places. They hit it off, marry after his mom catches them making stains on the couch, and do _jolly well just fine-no he doesn't miss Hermione_ all right.

But we're not talking about them.

This is Harry's story. Harry and Pansy's story. As in Parkinson. Park_in_son. Supposed future Pansy Parkinson Malfoy. Only, Pansy Potter has better ring to it. _Pansy Parkinson Potter_. Only, it surprises everyone. Except, they pretty much half expected it.

After all. This is the guy who wants to go down in History for turning Voldemort into goo, _not daffodils Hermione_, and pissing on said goo with his best friend. Harry's, not the goo's. Got it?

They meet because Harry hates interviews and _hates hates hates_ Rita Skeeter and Pansy has a problem with heels and hose. And they get all tangled up and flustered because Pansy's not used to having someone say _I'm sorry_ and Harry's not used to peopling telling him to _Go fuck yourself, hard, Potter_. Not after the war, of course; people don't tell saviors of the world to go do stuff like that. Mostly, anyway.

But, like I said, that isn't here or now. What is here _and_ now is that you're oriented. You've got the basic information to keep reading without being too confused. It's Friday, three o'clock P dot M dot...on the dot. And Harry feels like taking his wand and uttering some wicked cool spell to splatter his brains out all over the backdrop of Weasleys' Wizarding Wheezes. There. Scene set and run with it.


	2. Waiting Just a Beat

**A Story of No Consequence**

Waiting Just a Beat

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See, the thing is, Harry's space is filled with books. I don't mean space as in his room, like his bedroom, or, his room, like his living room. Dining room. Laundry room. Wash room. No, I mean his space. His living space. If you walked into Harry Potter's flat today, you would swear that every square inch was covered in books.

If he were to sleep in his flat, which he doesn't, he'd find it very hard to breath surrounded by all those books.

Hermione would probably orgasm. Okay, no _probably_, because it's obvious she would.

Orgasm, that is.

Anyway, Harry is too stubborn to rent a storage space and he needs a flat. Not in the sense that he wants one or feels he has to have one. But, Tonks thinks he does. And so does Remus, who agrees with almost everything Nymphadora Tonks-Lupin says because she's his wife and she's pregnant. Tonks, her hair is teal curls today, thinks he should have a flat because it looks good.

Because living in Number Twelve Grimmauld Place doesn't look too good to the authorities. Even when the authorities are licking your boots for being the savior of the _entire fucking world_.

At the time Tonks had straight red hair and a rather dour expression; she reminds Harry of his mother and so he agrees. Remus managed to pat him on the back and gave him a cigar. Not because Harry was getting a flat, but, because Remus was getting a puppy.

Puppies.

Fine, _damn it_, his wife was pregnant. Draco still swears the little devil spawn, his second cousins, have tails and howl at the moon. No one is sure, but, it could possibly be a possibility. Oh! Back to the books.

His space is covered in books. Not just any books, either, but books on World War II. Hitler, Churchill, Roosevelt _the second one_, and Stalin. Books about the death, death, death, and more death. Nazis, Fascists, Jews, Allies, Axis Powers…all the _little words_ that have become _silly little catch phrases _now. Maybe if they would have caught Tom Riddle before Dumbledore found him, before he started stealing toys and killing little Muggle children, then maybe we would have been able to stop this.

This most horrible, awful thing that happened. Maybe if we had a Time Turner _click click click_, it could have all been averted. Maybe, just maybe, if you stupid lazy assholes would learn how to _read_ _between the fucking lines_ Harry James Potter wouldn't have had to play savior and his parents would still be alive.

Harry tells Pansy all of this on their first date, amid his flat full of books, and she fucks him on top of Churchill and the Atomic Bomb. It is the _best_ orgasm of her life, period, at least at that particular moment anyway.

See, there really wasn't much to do in the war, so Harry read all the books Hermione gave him. Even though Ron groaned and complain and said she was being batty because _It's bullocks Hermione, no one reads during a bloody war_, Harry read them anyway. If someone had had the sense to pick up Mein Kampf, the soon to be savior thinks, then maybe six million people wouldn't have had to die for their _dirty dirty blood_ and another six million people wouldn't have had to die for _ethnicity, religion, and sexual preference_.

History repeats itself. Muggle, Wizard, it really doesn't matter. It's all an endless cycle. It's no surprise then that Voldemort was a half blood, _sort of like Hitler_, and that he decided that Muggle born witches and wizards were the reason why everything was messed up in the world.

Scapegoats. This all has an application beyond passing high school History people. Listen. Listen and maybe there won't be a need for saviors anymore.

You're not really listening, but, no matter anyway.

Hermione did all of this because she wanted Harry to understand and she wanted Harry to be prepared. While Ron helped him drill, practiced digging foxholes and hiding in the underbrush, _preparing _him for the _present_, Hermione _prepared_ him for the _future_. A future where Harry would be petted and admired and put on a pedestal and used as a mouthpiece.

And while Harry James Potter didn't have a head for politics, Hermione Jane Granger surely did.

Now days, Harry kisses babies and shakes hands and talks about the new Ministry policies to Ms Rita _Supreme Bitch of the World _Skeeter and Hermione makes sure the Minister doesn't over step his bounds and nothing like Voldemort happens again. No ghettos, no scapegoats, no special marriage laws…nothing stupid and no taunting God into punishing us with _another another _war. The Old Testament God, of course.

Where Ron is running off and playing with Cannons' action figures, _or something_, the other two thirds of the Golden Trio are getting something done. Because no one wants to listen to Hermione spread the gospel joy across the rebuilt lands and no one wants to let Harry tell them how everything needs to be done.

But don't think that Ron's not important, because he is. Without Ron, Hermione would work herself into a catatonic state and Harry would have become a meat sack of gloom. It's a proven fact; _ask the fates_, they'll tell you the truth.

Maybe.

I know you want a love story. A love story so full of love that there are flashy lights and fireworks going off every single time the destined couple kisses. You want that because, after a war, _everyone's_ ready for procreation and good dreams. And I want to give it to you.

You're just going to have to wait a beat. Or two. Or three. You've got to understand something, because, if you don't, you'll be just like Pansy who got drunk the first time she saw Harry and Hermione bent over a pile of books. Fingers and lips and faces ink stained. See, you'll jump to the wrong conclusions and end up puking up your dinner and your lunch and your double peanut butter mocha chip latte into the toilet.

She was so relieved when his body weight ground her spine into J. Robert Oppenheimer that she cried, cried, _cried_.

In this game, we can't risk jumping to the wrong conclusions. I can't let you have your fairy tale just yet.

Harry's on his way to interview with Skeeter, who apparently needs his words to pen to parchment some inane piece about the general election. Oh, oh, _oh_ _and St. Mungo's_. He's just a little disillusioned because Hermione took up with _King Ferret Face_, in the flesh, Draco Malfoy six months before and it might just be getting serious. Like fucking in an actual bed serious. Somehow, St. Potter doesn't think this will end out all right.

This is when he decides to splatter his brains all over the front of Weasleys' Wizarding Wheezes. He likes the twins, they're good blokes, and this little incident should help with publicity. Not like they don't get enough traffic as it is. But just as Harry is about to raise his wand, this _moose_ comes barreling at him.

Only the moose is wearing nude tights with a run in them and _black fuck you heels_. Fuck you and get out of the fucking way, before I run you the fuck over Potter. Okay, so it's not a moose, it's Pansy Parkinson. Who, if she'd done her civic duty and just married the stupid Malfoy git already, wouldn't have allowed him to be _fucking in an actual bed serious_ with Hermione Granger.

He tells her this and she laughs, actually has the gall to laugh, and says she'll walk him to the Prophet's building, because she's passing by, and she needs someone to take her elbow while she limps down the street.

Because, apparently, nude tights cause your feet to slip in black heels and cause you to sprain your ankle. And because Pansy very well can't take out her wand, because it's in her apartment, and she's too plastered to apparate, she needs a little help getting steady.

Always an angel, Harry James Potter agrees and takes her elbow and starts back down the street.

Here's a secret, something no one should ever _ever_ know. See, the thing his, he sort of, kind of, takes Pansy's elbow, because, at his height and with her blouse, he could see down her shirt and look upon the tops of her breasts. And just once he thinks, because he fucking saved the universe, he should get a little something for helping walk the former Slytherin Ice Princess, _not so former_, down the street.

Another secret? He gets a little something and then a lot more than he bargained for.


	3. Background Check

**A Story of No Consequence**

Background Check

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If you forget about the emotional abusive, hateful, neglectful childhood Harry suffered at the hands of the Dursleys, then you could say he had a good childhood. Yes, it started with Voldemort pointing a wand at his forehead, but forget that. Just a moment, mind you, because it's rather important in the long run.

Think about it for just a moment. For eleven years of his life, he didn't have to worry about ducking curses, secret Orders, bad politics, or saving the fucking world.

Think about it.

Pansy Parkinson, on the other hand, was quite aware of her future. Her mother had failed to bring a healthy boy into the world, just three dead ones, and so everyone was riding their hopes upon Pansy's shoulders. She'd marry a nice boy, make their fortune even larger, and make the Parkinson name great by proxy.

When she's five years old, she has chubby cheeks and too big eyes and stumpy legs that aren't at all good for running but are good for tripping down stairs, scrapping knees, and ruining dresses.

You're five years old and you know you won't be saving the world. Five years old and Slytherin self-preservation and cool calculation has already been pounded into your brain. You could be the poster child for growing up too fast if you were just a little prettier. But, of course, that title goes to perfect, cherubic Draco Malfoy.

Stupid smug bastard.

The first time Pansy met Draco, she poured a glass of milk over his head and called him a ghost. Her mother almost fainted, her father turned a peculiar shade of green, and little Draco laughed so hard he peed his pants. After Lucius was done railing his son for being a little nitwit, _that never happened again_, he clapped his hands together and declared it a perfect match. Narcissa, as was her want, sneered.

Six years old and Pansy would never be good enough for her supposed future mama-in-law. Not that anyone particularly cared. After all, Narcissa's mama couldn't bring any healthy boys into the world either.

Wives aren't nearly as important as uteri. But you need a wife to get a uterus so the story goes.

You see, Phillip Parkinson was many things, but Death Eater was not one of them. During top secret, gentlemen-only, rich rich meetings, he brayed as loudly as the next man about maintaining blood purity. Really, he only cared about was marrying his daughter to someone semi-intelligent and with more money than he had. In public, he was neutral and mysterious, known only for his money and the stigma attached to the Parkinson name. This is how you keep from dying.

Slytherin Ideology 101.

Boring background, I know, and it doesn't even tell you why Pansy gave her cat such a horrid name. But, just so you know, it was Pansy's mother who filled her head with vile thoughts about blood traitors and mudbloods and cleaning up the filth before they could encroach any further. She put her daughter on the twelve-step plan to becoming a Malfoy.

And then the war came again. No one listened to Harry Potter for a long time. No one important anyway. Just a handful of people who were either too weak or too good to do anything useful. No one really started listening until people started dying.

Dark Marks had to be burned into the fucking sky before people started taking notice. From there it plays like a bad Cold War rerun. Duck and cover does shit again Avada Kedavra. Crucio. Imperio. Duck, cover, and _get screwed up the ass_.

No one sat up and paid attention until Dumbledore died. And then, everyone suddenly wanted Harry Potter in their pocket. Not just the Minister, _everyone_. Better than a wand. Lifetime guaranteed warranty on your own personal salvation.

Fuck Jesus, St. Potter is the key to Heaven on Earth.

While Draco is off hiding, Pansy is trying to find him. She does not do this because Narcissa is worried. Nor does Pansy care that her mother needs her supposed future son-in-law to plan the most wonderful wedding of the century. Pansy is searching because they are friends. She'd been too busy sulking over the debacle with Umbridge, worrying about the war, and growing into her face to realize that Draco was crying in the girls' loo.

What a lot of good she was as a friend.

Because of this, Pansy sends the Order every scrap of information she hears at pompous pre-celebratory parties. They don't trust her, of course, because she's the whore, the loud mouth Slytherin bitch, Draco's supposed fiancée. And Pansy doesn't give a damn.

Voldemort twisted everything beautiful about her way of life and made it evil. He wanted to kill her best friend, her only true friend, because his father was an idiot and a failure.

Pansy has to find Draco because Snape failed to protect him and she was blind to all the secret planning. Don't misunderstand, she's not a saint. Not like Potter, Granger, Weasley. There is something personal at stake. If this wasn't her life on the line, she would have wiped her hands clean a long, long time ago.

This _poor little rich girl_ doesn't leave her life of luxury until the last possible moment. Until her mother lies gutted like a trout, bleeding thoughtlessly on the pure white carpet. Her father is still breathing, trying to crawl to his wife with a limbless torso. Raped and bleeding, forced to watch as his house burns down around him. It's like the Old Testament God's back in action. Fuck covenants and crucifixes; you hung my son up to dry. Only, it's not God, it's Lucius Malfoy who's out of prison and looking for someone to blame. Unfortunately, for Phillip, Voldemort is out of the question.

By this time, Pansy is long gone. Theodore Nott, that little reedy runt, told her the information for her virginity. Of course, this is the exchange that truly marks her as a whore, but, by now, it really doesn't matter. He won't let her save her parents, Very thoughtful because there was obviously nothing that she could do. So he fucks her into the mattress at the same time her mother's stomach is being split open.

Magically mind you. Not the fucking, but the gutting. She can't cry because he's too ignorant to know that he just tore into her hymen, blinded by the same common misperception that Draco has slid into her too many times to count.

He's so surprised she's so damn tight that he tells her everything she wants to know and more. When Pansy leaves, too disoriented to remember a simple scourgify, she goes straight for the nearest apparition point.

Knickers still sticky with blood and semen, she writes to the Order one last time. _When I come back, I'm bringing Draco with me. It's as bloody simple as that._

While her childhood home burns up her parents, her house elves, her clothes, and her memories, Pansy is grabbing onto a rusty soup can on a one-way ticket to Nepal. All she can think of while the bile rises up in her throat is that she hopes Theo doesn't die.

Not because he was good in bed, she wouldn't know, but that he's an all right boy who's just a little confused. She almost feels bad for obliviating him. But, not so bad that, if given a chance, she wouldn't do it again.

After all, her virginity was her last ditch hope. Not for marrying, of course, because her substantial dowry is safe in Gringotts. No one, smart anyway, turns away an ungodly sum of money, even if they think you've been used by half of Hogwarts. Virginity is important because if Voldemort wins, pure blood will become sacred. Pansy's blood is as pure as the driven snow, no matter how badly her parents fucked up, no one kills perfect pureblood virgin bride material.

Her father fucked up worse than Satan trying to get a one up on God. The Ministry seized his funds, a futile gesture considering he wasn't funneling money to the Death Eaters. The stupid paper tigers then refused to give it back until he formally rejected the Death Eaters.

This said, Phillip Parkinson wasn't an idiot. He knew that a few years of gentile poverty, until his daughter came into her trust, was worth it if it meant he wouldn't die.

Smart thinking. Slytherin thinking. Keep your wife from being split open like a fish on the carpet that probably costs more than the Burrow thinking.

Speaking up against Voldemort sets a bad precedent. The Ministry thought, foolishly, that if one pureblood stepped up, other would follow. Unfortunately, Public Enemy Number One, Premire Snake Snogger, thought so too. And he very well couldn't have his loyal following, his fan club, turn on him.

Phillip knew this, Pansy knew this, hell, the fucking toad probably knew this. Pansy's mother, however, was too stupid for her own good.

Like I said, wives are only useful for their uteri. After that, there's nothing left but vapid self importance and an ugly half sneer.

The thing is, Elizabeth Parkinson wanted to be Narcissa Malfoy. She wanted the blonde hair, the cool self-importance, the brave husband who would fight for her racist ideology, and the perfect son.

Overall, Elizabeth Parkinson was a fucking idiot. She pleaded with her husband to do whatever it took to get that money back. However else was she going to keep up with the Malfoys?

He agrees because she's never going to fucking shut up until he goes along with it. Bitchy uteri aren't nearly as endearing after they're shriveled up and past their prime.

Funny story, Phillip almost laughed when his wife's entrails spilled onto the carpet. Not even Imperio makes you feel that giddy. In some dark corner of his mind, he decided the stupid bitch deserved it. The rest of his thoughts were focused worriedly on Pansy, even while Nott Sr. pulled off his limbs with a spell that felt like a billion little nettles.

Worried about his daughter who was letting Theodore Nott pound out the last bit of innocence she had left.

Deep breath. Hold it. Now, just imagine this. All of Pansy's owls to the Order are scanned for hexes and curses. They are then carefully read, dismissed, and stuffed into their own personal file.

_Chronologically_. Even when dealing with Pansy "Untrustworthy Waste of Space" Parkinson, Hermione Granger is extremely efficient.

Her efficiency isn't under fire when Harry find the scraps of parchment. "Did you ever think to tell anyone? Did you ever think to take the warnings seriously when every single one came true?"

"She's a Slytherin and a bigot" is the most worn out phrase when they're finally finished with their explosive argument. Fireworks not included. Later, years later, Harry wants to remind Hermione of this mantra when he catches Draco fucking her from behind while she's leaning over the kitchen table.

But, sometimes, he's more Lily's son that James' so he let's the words die as quickly as they formed.

Pansy's very last owl posted on the wall outside the kitchen steels them for the inevitable. Pansy will bring Draco back and she will make the Order shelter their sorry pureblood asses until the war is over.

Hermione feels so badly about dead bodies, burned houses, and smug self-righteousness that she bravely declares it's the least they can do.

Ron, thoughtful as always, kicks her out of bed for sympathizing with the enemy. She tells him to go to hell for overreacting. Harry thinks this is just a repeat of the same old argument. Harry think it's a phase. Maybe, he thinks later, if Ron wasn't such a stupid ass, he wouldn't have had to walk in on Draco and Hermione.

Harry, not Ron.

God help us if Ron ever walked in on Draco and Hermione.

With Ron and Hermione, Harry would have blushed and stammered his way out of the door without incident. With Draco, however, Hermione giggles and asks him to join them. He refuses, politely, and Draco won't let up about it for two damn months.

He has nightmares about his pale white ass for almost three months.

Harry, not Draco. Draco's ass, not Harry's.

None of this matters in Nepal. All that matters is that Pansy finds Snape half dead in a pile of refuse. He spits blood and puss when he talks; his body is eaten up by magic, bacteria, and maggots.

Pansy doesn't fucking care. By now, our little princess is too tired and travel worn to care. She grabs a fist full of hair from his greasy, decaying head. When he proudly declares that he is the only one who can see Draco, Pansy yanks the fist full out. Polyjuice take such a long time and she doesn't want to make any mistakes.

Snape is a decaying pile of disgust when she finally finds Draco huddled in the back of an abandoned factory. They break the enchantment just before the potion wears off and she had to find him all over again.

They return to London just before all hell breaks loose. Moody spots them and tells Kingsley who tells Arthur who tells Ron who finally tells Harry in a fit of red, irrational rage.

When Pansy arrives at Number Twelve Grimmauld Place, she barrels through the doors like a demon moose. On fire. Draco thinks it's funny and laughs so hard his makeshift stitches bust open.

Pansy thinks, "I gave up my virginity for that." Hermione says, "Oh Merlin, this is the shittiest healing I've ever seen." Pansy glares because, obviously, it's not her best work but she'd like to see Granger do better between side alongs and trying not to set off Voldemort's alarms. Draco rattles off something outrageously sexual even though he currently couldn't get a hard on to save his miserable life. Ron ends up covered in exploding blisters after Pansy deflects a curse intended for her favorite former ferret.

And Harry just hopes it's the beginning of the end because he's forbidden from alcohol until it's all over and he needs a really stiff drink.


	4. The Problem with Names

**A Story of No Consequence**

The Problem with Names

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Some people have a middle name: James, Jane, Bilius, and Molly. Other people have several middle names or none. For the most part, even those people who abbreviate their middle names with a single letter, like one Percy I. Weasley, still have a middle name. Not that you can really blame them for abbreviating, especially when their middle name happens to be _Ignatius_.

This is actually important to the story. Maybe it's not, but, you aren't going to know until right up to the very end. So, if you don't stick with this and suck in all this precious knowledge, just like Hermione _Jane_ Granger would do, then you might just be left grasping onto straws and dust motes.

It's not likely, but, you just might.

Pansy doesn't have a middle name anymore than she has living parents or a best friend. No, her parents were taken away from her in a _fire_ that burned hotter than a middle circle of Hell and her best friend was taken away by a _bushy haired nobody_ who likes to boss everyone around. Like her parents and her best friend, her middle name was taken away from her also. Not by arson or a stupid, insensitive mudblood, but by her great grandmother who had already had a foot and a half in the grave anyway.

V.

It does not stand for Violet, Viola, Vi, Vee, Vivien, or any combination of a capital V and the other twenty five letters of the alphabet. _Or another V for that matter_. She's not trying to be pretentious, she simply has no choice in the matter. For twenty-four years, the little girl with a too hard eyes and a too loud laugh has been known as Pansy V. Parkinson.

Harry thinks it's so hot that he busies himself with drawing little V's on her arms and legs while she sleeps. Of course, it's probably something subconscious to do with the fact that the letter has often been a symbol for the vagina, but, Pansy doesn't like to dwell on that. She likes her former saviors of the world soft and innocent. Unfortunately, that's neither here nor there.

What's here is that Pansy gets drunk one night, five months, two weeks, and four days after the final battle, and comes home to her cat. A kitten, really. A little ball of calico fluff that is still nameless even after living in her flat for three days. But, that's to be excused, you see, because Pansy's a very busy girl. She's been getting drunk in Milan, Paris, New York City, Los Angeles, Hong Kong, Tokyo, Moscow, and Cairo. This is what B-list members of the Order, _Slytherins can't be A-list no matter how much they contributed_, after the war is over. After Voldemort has been turned into a murky goo the consistency of baby food, all there's left is to get drunk.

See, no one is offering Pansy any Ministry positions unless it's _missionary_, _doggy style_, or _on your knees under my desk for a quick blow job after lunch_. Unlike Hermione Granger, who can get offers from Playwizard one week and St. Mungo's the next, no one's really respecting Pansy. Even though she helped Hermione crack some rather difficult codes using Arithmancy, created a handful of wickedly useful hexes, and kept Neville Longbottom alive long enough after his final confrontation with Bellatrix Black Lestrange for a bloody Healer to come along and save his damned Gryffindor life. In the end, she's still Draco's whore, even if they _never fucked_, and a Slytherin to boot.

Really then, it's no surprise that Pansy gets drunk. This finally leads us back to the poor calico kitten.

Pansy gets back from Cairo, her last hot wizard nightspot on her list of top places to get drunk, and retches in the doorway of her flat. She kicks off her shoes, steps over the pile of her own vomit, and curls up into a small ball on the couch. Then kitten, as is her want, purrs loud enough for seven Hogwarts Expresses and head butts Pansy.

Who in turn names her Pepper Toptomkins.

Which is an awful, horrid, vile name.

Harry, who doesn't hear this story until five months after they start fucking like crazed rabbits, thinks it's wildly entertaining. He, like Pansy before him, calls the poor little kitten, who grew up to be a rather large, lazy cat, PT.

This has almost nothing to do with the fact that Pansy's middle name is also a middle initial. Nor the fact that the first time PT met Harry, she vomited on his boots while Pansy made tea and then made up for it by curling up and purring in his lap while he listened to the WWN.

Sometimes, cats vibrate when they purr. PT really, really vibrates. Not that Harry is a perv, but, most of the time, boys really can't control what their _manly bits_ are doing. It's a fact of nature. So, let's just say that PT _really really made it up to Harry_ and, somehow, Pansy didn't think that he was a sicko pervert.

Actually, she laughed. Mostly because she's never had a boy excuse himself and rush to the loo after her cat had cozied up to him. This is because PT hates men, even Draco, and never cozies up to the boys Pansy brings home.

Probably, they think after the wedding, because none of those boys were Harry. See, cats are usually excellent judges of character. Remember _pleasant Peter Pettigrew_? Yeah, the asshole, well, they should have let Crookshanks eat the bastard while he had the chance.

I'm just saying that it would have saved us all a shit load of trouble. Cedric Diggory wouldn't have died, Cho Chang wouldn't have wasted her entire sixth year crying, and Harry's first kiss wouldn't have been mixed with snot and tears. Maybe Cedric and Cho would have gotten married, produced five kids, and then Cedric would have left his plump, overly emotional wife for Oliver Wood.

Because, seriously, the man's a Quidditch fanatic and everyone thinks Diggory was a bit of a poof. And how can anyoneresist _that_ accent combined with sex on legs _riding a broom_? Unfortunately, Cedric died and left Harry to wrestle with the guilt. Such an inconsiderate bastard; just like a Hufflepuff to do something like that.

Pepper Toptomkins, turned out all right despite her name. Pansy, on the other hand, does not. Right away, anyway, because how can you turn out all right with just a middle initial? And a father who wants to sell you to the highest bidder for _you own good_? And a mother who gives you tips on how set a perfect table for tea all the while tightening your vaginal muscles?

PT got off so easy with a drunk for a mother. Harry, as his want, is inclined to agree.

You see, the savior of the wizarding world walks Pansy to her flat from Diagon Alley. Every time she stumbles, he catches are around the waist and tries very hard to ignore the fact that her breasts are pressing up against his chest. All he can think about is that Parkinson's got nice breasts. His manly bit agree, even though he _is _trying to ignore them.

The breasts, not his bits, because, really those are pretty damn hard to ignore. No pun intended. At least initially.

Somehow they get to the flat, even though the drunk moose keeps tripping in her broken heels and calling him names like poof and fairy. Harry doesn't understand how any woman in her right mind could say things like that, especially when _he's staring right down her flimsy blouse_.

It probably has something to do with the fact that Pansy smells like vodka and orange juice. With this in mind, our favorite orphaned savior of the world, hauls Pansy up with his Quidditch worn hands and props her up against his body. Not because he's feeling her up, mind you, but because he needs to get her keys. Which, pleasantly enough, are hooked onto the front of her bra. Sue him, he's a seeker,withgood eyes and fast hands so it's not like she notices right off the bat.

Actually, Pansy doesn't notice that Harry has reached down her blouse, wiggled his hand between her breasts, and fondled, _I mean grasped at_, her keys. By the time they make it to the entry way, her blouse might as well be pooled around her hips and his hands might as well be between her legs. Which they are not, thank you very much.

Harry _James_ Potter is fifteen minutes late for his interview with Rita _I just got a new nose_ Skeeter when Pansy vomits all over the front of his new button up. New in the sense that it's Gryffindor red, pseudo-silk, and bought specifically by Hermione to wear to his interview. She would have bought brown, because it brings out his eyes, but the only shirt in his size was her second favorite color to dress him in. Who says bookworms can't have fashion sense?

Most boys would be a little repulsed by this most intimate act of emptying ones stomach of top shelf vodka, pulp-free orange juice, a handful of crackers, and two chocolate bars. Harry, however, mindful of the time that he's not having to spend under the _stupid fucking bitch's_ scrutiny, kisses Pansy full on the mouth and catches her when she passes out.

Not because of the kiss, mind you, but because she's really fucking messed up from all the alcohol.

Laying Pansy gently on her couch, mindful of the large cat perched on the arm, Harry strips out of his ruined shirt, throws it into the entry way, and walks into the kitchen to make a pot of coffee. By the time Pansy wakes up, he's four hours late for his interview and Hermione has spent the last two hours pacing around Number Twelve and screaming at his miserable, blissfully ignorant ass at the top of her lungs.

Girl's got a good set of lungs. _Draco would know_. Ba da dum.

But Harry's so grateful for having a half way decent excuse for skipping out on a long, painful policy talk that he only memorized the night before that he stays around. He's so grateful that he brings Pansy her wand and a bottle of hang over potion, pours her a cup of coffee, and fluffs her pillow without so much of a word.

And although he acts a little shocked when she finally kicks him out, bare chested and fisting his vomit-ruined shirt, Harry still doesn't say much. What he does want, however, is a cigarette because, for not having sex, that was probably the biggest roller coaster of excitement he's had since Puddlemere took the English Cup.


	5. At Second Glance

**A Story of No Consequence**

At Second Glance

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Neville Longbottom died because of the war, not during the war. His scary, ferocious Gran Longbottom, who really wasn't all that bad, died during the war. His parents, who had been made more than a little mental as a result of the first war, were tucked in safe and sound at St. Mungo's and didn't even get their hair ruffled.

Longbottom, war hero extraordinaire, the guy who killed Bellatrix Lestrange, died because he did entirely too much cocaine at a muggle club in London while celebrating Voldemort's demise. Pansy, who risked her life in the middle of the battlefield with a combination of dragging his half-dead ass back behind Order lines and performing enough frantic healing spells on the way to keep him alive until the healer got there, was, understandably, pretty pissed.

So, two months, three weeks, and four days after the final battle when Neville is buried in a quiet graveyard next to his gran, Pansy is more than a little upset. Not so upset that she blows up during the funeral, no, she still has enough Slytherin decorum left in her to hold her temper in until after the guests have left. And so, after the last person has shuffled off to Number Twelve for a somber post-funeral party, Pansy rants and raves over Neville's grave and really isn't satisfied until she spits on his tombstone.

This is the reason why Pansy runs into Harry at St. Mungo's three weeks after their first encounter.

See, Hermione Granger isn't one to be ignored. She isn't one to be bulldozed over. If Hermione says jump, you better be jumping even before you ask 'how high.' This is how the bookish, formerly bushy haired, young woman managed to strong arm Harry into another interview with Rita Skeeter, this time at St. Mungo's.

The problem with Skeeter is that she's fake and abrasive and doesn't take 'no' for an answer. These character flaws are probably why Skeeter and Hermione manage to get along so well on a professional level. These character flaws are also why Harry contemplates blowing his brains out every time he's forced to talk to her.

Being the savior of the world shouldn't come with conditions like: you must speak to Rita _Tasteless Hussy _Skeeter on a regular basis.

Being the savior of the world should come with conditions like: you are served margaritas every Sunday by five gorgeous women all named Bambi.

This, unfortunately, isn't the point.

After the meeting, which went fairly well considering Hermione kept _discreetly _poking him in the back to make him answer questions he didn't want to, Harry decided to wander aimlessly around St. Mungo's in a bid to regain his sanity. Strangely enough he liked the faint, sanitary smell of lemon disinfectant and the way the medi-witches and wizards shuffled around with an air of inflated self-importance. It was peaceful, quiet, and organized, nothing like the muddy, chaotic battlefields that had taken up four years of his life.

Walking slowly down one of the brilliantly lit hallways, hands in his pockets and eyes on the floor, Harry was unaware of anything but his silent plotting to dismember Rita _Peroxide and Permed Magically _Skeeter with an ax when he ran straight into a crying moose.

Okay, by now you know it wasn't a moose. It was Pansy Parkinson.

Only it didn't look like Pansy Parkinson. This young woman had her fine black hair pulled back off of her shoulders and away from her face and set into a loose chignon. Her long bangs, usually swept to the side, were falling in her face, doing nothing to hide her puffy red eyes. She was blotchy and shaking, her petite frame wrapped up in a modest dark blue shirt dress and her feet wobbly on simple camel colored pumps. The Pansy that Harry knew always had her hair texturized into spikey-looking layers and usually had enough cleavage on display to make Lavender Brown a little jealous.

It threw Harry.

Threw Harry and slammed him up against the wall.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing Potter?"

While he was thinking, mouth moving like a fish gaping for water, Harry's fingers slowly grabbed at the wrinkled fabric of the dark blue shirt dress until Pansy's body was pressed up against him as tightly as his was against the wall. He was starring at her red stained mouth and barely managed to utter "Thinking," before her lips crashed into his like some crazed thing.

God, of both Testaments, would have been fairly disappointed indeed.

When they were done fondling each other up against the too white wall in that too bright hallway while slipping on the too slick tile, Pansy, who was panting hard and trying to remove the lipstick smudges from around Harry's mouth, looked up from under short, thick lashes and jerked her head behind her.

Frank and Alice Longbottom looked the way they always did, completely out of their minds. Being at the wrong end of Bellatrix's wand, even before Mrs. Absolutely Freaking Mental got out of lock up, had a way of doing that to people.

See, Pansy Parkinson made Neville Longbottom a promise a long, long time ago, before he snorted an obscene amount of white powder up his nose, that if anything ever happened to him that she would take care of his parents. Not in the traditional sense of wiping up after their messes and making sure their padded walls were comfortable, but, by checking in on them once a week and talking to them.

Not that they could understand a word that she said. All they really did was pass her candy wrappers and smile. They were kind of like puppies that wag their tails no matter what you say, so long as you talk in a happy voice.

But she did come every week, sometimes twice a week if she didn't have anything better to do, especially now since Draco seemed to have the idea that he was going to _shack up_ with that Granger girl. And she told them stories about their son. Anything good she could remember from Hogwarts, which wasn't much, and everything that she could think about from that war. Six years of being the butt end of jokes at Hogwarts had turned Neville Longbottom into something that wasn't soft and clumsy and the butt of jokes by the time seventh year rolled around.

And so when Harry Potter, Hermione Granger, and Ron Weasley made the decision not to attend Hogwarts their final year, Neville stepped up and led the Gryffindors like he was born to.

Because, really, it could have easily have been Neville Longbottom as the Boy Who Lived and Harry Potter with the overprotective relations and crazy parents locked up safe and snug until they died of natural causes at very, very old ages.

Kidding, really, because Vernon and Petunia would always be uncaring, verbally abusive relations no matter how alternate the universe was.

Pansy tells this all to Harry while she's clutching at the lapels of his brand new, dark brown button up and trying not to shake out of her heels. She does this while she's crying in thick, mucous-filled sobs and snorting back snot into her nose. Face flushed and rubbing her snotty nose on Harry's shirt, she doesn't even care enough to choke back the sobs even though there were countless people who could walk down the hallway and see her in such a delicate position.

Slytherin Ideology 101. It's okay to let people see you snogging the savior of the world in hospital hallways, but not okay to let them see you cry.

Which is why Harry ignores the snot and kisses her harder and asks Pansy on a date that turns into two, that turns into three, that eventually turns into the rest of their life.

---

**Note: **Finally we get to chapter five! As I said in my profile, I'm ready to get this story over with. Not because I'm done with Harry Potter fanfiction (God forbid) but because I'm no longer in the state of mind I was when I first started writing this. It was a little hard to get back into the groove; I hope you, my dear readers, didn't notice too terribly much. I'll probably finish this in a couple more chapters and tie up the ends all nice and tidy. Anyway, I haven't given up yet and thank you so, so much for all your patience. **Keep reviewing and subscribing**, it keeps me motivated. Also, a warm thanks to everyone who has added me to their C2 groups. It always makes me smile.


	6. Pockets of Peace

**A Story of No Consequence**

Pockets of Peace

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The reality of the post-war Wizarding world and the fantasy are almost completely unrecognizable from one another. This is generally what it means to go to war.

You see, after you've spent four years killing your neighbor and ducking curses from your cousin, it's hard to go back to the uneasy peace from before. Muggleborns and Half Bloods really weren't too keen on turning the other cheek and forgiving those who were trying to cram them into dirty ghettos and, ultimately, into filthy concentration camps. And those same Purebloods, even those who didn't march up in step behind Lord _I Make Out With Snakes and Not Humans _Voldemort, still clung to those same prejudices that got them into two wars and a list of idiotic laws in the first place.

Old habits die hard. Kind of how Draco won't marry Hermione because he worries about what his parents would say even though his father is dead and his mother is just as freaking crazy as the Longbottoms. Or crazier. Sometimes it's really hard to put a gauge on crazy.

This is a world where Molly Weasley became gray after she lost two sons, Bill and Percy, and two daughters, Fleur and Ginny, even though Fleur was technically a _daughter-in-law_. But that doesn't really matter because Fleur was pregnant with Molly's first grandchild when she died and that made her Weasley enough for everyone. Especially Lucius Malfoy.

This is a world where some nameless nobody becomes the Minister of Magic and tries to pass things like marriage laws and things like Jim Crow laws and desegregation at the same time. It's a world where Hermione Granger stays up all night smoking cigarettes and downing coffee, driving her recently moved in boyfriend crazy, while coming up with a new way to talk the well meaning Minister out of his latest moronic plan. As per usual, Harry is the focal point of this plan. This drives Draco up the wall, even though he knows that Harry is the only one that can talk Mr. Well Meaning, but ultimately completely retarded, out of completely destroying the fragile peace that has overtaken the Wizarding community.

It takes nearly twenty months until the Ministry wises up and Kingsley Shacklebolt becomes Minister of Magic. That night is the first night that Hermione gets a good, deep sleep in nearly six years.

Which is probably a good thing because Draco would have probably, most likely, stopped sleeping with Hermione if she hadn't eventually stopped fixating on Harry like he was a shinning, perfect beacon of light. Because while she never had romantic feelings for Harry, hero worship bordering on actual god-like worship is almost bad enough.

Seven months into Harry and Pansy's _relationship_, the couple is sitting on a couch in the flat Ron bought because his _ex-wife_ liked that it overlooked a park. See, while Ron eventually gets over Hermione, it takes him far too long and his brand new blushing bride, as is her want, eventually gets fed up and leaves. Files divorce papers in Canada and sends them via owl post. It's not really a shock to anyone, even Ron, because really the whole marriage was based around the fact that she was fluffy haired, _not frizzy_, brunette, and really really way too easy. And so they're sitting around Ron's flat, which was decorated by Ron and _not Mary_, listening to the wireless.

The flat, not just the living room or Ron's room or the kitchen is decorated Cannon's orange. The living room, and just the living room, is plastered with Cannon's memorabilia, which is understandable because not only has Ron been a huge Cannon's fan his whole life but he was recently made first string Keeper. This is mostly because Ron is an amazing Keeper and not because the former Keeper, Mallory, broke both his legs and his pelvis so badly that he didn't even want to look at a broom even after the Healer deemed him fit to fly.

Four hours and twenty three minutes later.

_They _includes Hermione and Draco, who has his arm draped around the rather bored looking witch who would rather be shagging in Ron's impossibly small bathroom than listening to United beat the crap out of the Falcons. Draco would probably agree except that he's really enjoying drinking good Muggle beer and yelling at the Falcons to do something more than fly around and let United tromp all over them. Parvati, Ron's flavor of the week, is bouncing in his lap, cheering heartily even though she really isn't listening. This can be evidenced by the fact that she keeps jumping up to check the curried chicken in the oven and getting beers for Ron's guests. Pansy's sprawled over the couch, head in Harry's lap, hands fisting the faded denim of his jeans every time United makes a goal.

She's been a Puddlemere United fan ever since she was seven years old, mostly because they're a fairly good team, but also because they always employ dashingly good looking boys to play and because Draco was born a hardcore Fallmouth Falcons fan.

Harry's a Cannons fan by default because his best friend is so fanatical about the piss poor team, but, really, he'll be thoroughly enjoying a victory shag for Puddlemere later that evening.

It's taken almost all of the seven months Harry and Pansy have been going out on dates to secluded locations, taking long walks around St. James Park, and fucking like crazed rabbits to get to the point where Harry's friends can stomach the fact that Pansy V. Parkinson, _supreme Slytherin bitch_, is dating Harry James Potter, _Gryffindor Boy Wonder. _Which is a double standard really because no one minds that Hermione and Draco have been _fucking in an actual bed_ serious for a little over thirteen months and living together for two of them. Or that Ron, who has shagged more women in the four months he's been divorced from his wife than most people shag in a lifetime, has been with at least five Slytherin women at least ten times more bitchy than Pansy.

But this is Harry we're talking about, so the bar is set just a little higher.

It's not fair, but, even the tabloids would agree. Which is mostly the reason for the dates in secluded locations.

Pansy, funny enough, wins them over because she always helps Mrs. Weasley clean up after dinner when she goes with Harry to the Burrow and brings over pictures of PT, her cat, like the calico was her child. Once Molly Weasley has given someone the seal of approval there's really nothing you can do but approve. So everyone approves, even Hermione.

It takes five years, after Hermione and Draco pop out their first kid, for her to come around to Mr. Stupid Ferret Face. Well, Hermione did the popping, not Draco, but, he probably wished he could have switched her places just so he wouldn't have had to stand there and let her squeeze his hand nearly off.

If he had known it would have stopped Mrs. Weasley from trying to hex his precious blonde hair off of his head every time he went to the weekly Weasley family and friends dinner, he would have gotten her knocked up way sooner than that.

If Hermione ever heard him think like that, God forbid talk like that, she would probably smother him with a pillow. _Or something_.

Post war means lazy Saturday evenings laying around Ron's flat, unless the Cannons were playing and then it meant crazy Saturday afternoons packed between half rabid fans cheering on Ron, who played brilliantly even though his team sucked.

It also means Harry and Pansy, Hermione and Draco, Ron and whoever, and every other surviving member of the Order gets their faces plastered on pages of wizard tabloids because war heroes are the new celebrities.

It means Luna Lovegood becomes Professor Luna Lovegood-Nott and teaches Divination at Hogwarts until she becomes Headmistress at the ripe old age of seventy three.

Really, though, she would have much rather become Luna Lovegood-Weasley and lived on the dragon reserve in Romania with Charlie. For some reason, during the war, she developed a one sided crush on the second oldest Weasley son that never really went away. Thankfully her husband never figured that out.

Not that he could have said much, seeing as he never stopped fantasizing over Pansy after that one night of rather frantic intelligence gathering. He nearly choked to death on his tea when he found out she was dating Potter, courtesy of a rather bold magazine headline. Luna smiled and muttered something under her breath about building a home for the garden gnomes that had infested their garden.

To keep from looking like a moron, he quickly agreed.

This is how things were better, and worse, after the war.

And, just for the record, I think most of Luna's friends would have preferred she married Charlie. This isn't because Theo is such a horrible, terrible person but because he has a tendency to get drunk and talk too loudly about his rather exciting sex life. And garden gnomes. Not that he has an exciting sex life with said gnomes, but, his brain gets a little jumbled after too many shots of Jack Daniels.

But everyone would agree that weird stories about rabid garden gnomes and sex with Luna are much more enjoyable than playing duck and cover against the Three Unforgivable Curses. During peace time, however, that's generally the way things go.

---

**Note: **I know what you're saying, chapter 6 so soon after chapter 5, but, I'm on a roll here people. One or two more chapters and we're going to be all done here.


	7. Pink and Frilly

**A Story of No Consequence**

Pink and Frilly

---

Were Ginny Weasley still alive, and if she hadn't married Harry Potter, and Harry and Pansy still managed to get together, she would have been invited to the wedding. Had she been the _Childhood Crush Who Lived_, then she would have probably married Neville Longbottom and had been a huge, glowing globe of seven months pregnant by the time Harry and Pansy got around to marrying.

Mostly because that's the way the Fates work. Ask them, they'll probably, most likely, tell you.

Anyway, because Pansy would have always been jealous of picture perfect Ginny Longbottom, even though she was nice and married and pregnant by the not dead war hero Neville, she would have made her a part of the wedding party.

This has everything to do with Pansy being insecure, most of those insecurities brought on by her horrid, vicious mother, and not because she'd be the kind of nice, _turn the other cheek_ person that invites gorgeous redheads to take part in the wedding of their ex-crush.

See, being in the wedding party means you're completely at the mercy of the bride. And Pansy would have completely and totally taken advantage of that fact. Something pink and frilly and absolutely disgusting against Ginny's peachy, speckled complexion. Everyone knows redheads, most redheads anyway, look horrid in pink.

But, as it is, Pansy and Harry had a nice light blue and ivory wedding. In times of peace, it's best to completely ignore your house colors. Especially when they'd end up making your wedding look like a Christmas postcard. Which is bad when you're wedding takes place in June.

Pansy is absolutely completely mental during the eighteen months it takes to plan and execute the biggest wedding of the century. She, understandably, becomes more mental every day that brings her closer to the June 8th wedding date. Harry, not surprisingly, doesn't do much at all.

I mean, he does stuff, but, he doesn't do a whole lot. He gives candid, humorous interviews to the press, excluding Rita _I need liposuction and a brain transplant_ Skeeter, which only makes the interviews that much more entertaining. He gets measured into dress robes, ushers the male part of the wedding part off for robe fittings, waves off the idea of a bachelor party even though he knows they're going to do it anyway, and agrees with everything that Pansy says even if he doesn't wholeheartedly agree with it.

That's just what grooms do. It took him nearly two years to figure that out. Nearly two years and a whole lot of alcohol. Not too much that you'd be able to call him an alcoholic, but enough to make him realize that if he didn't catch on soon enough he'd end up passed out over a public loo somewhere making a complete and total ass out of himself.

Pansy, not only made herself completely and totally mental, but drug a whole lot of people along for the ride.

Hermione.

Padma, a former best friend who ended up with Ron after he finally, _completely_, got over Hermione.

Parvati, because Pansy had to have a set of twins on her side of the wedding party if Harry was going to. And who wasn't too terribly, horribly upset about the whole Padma and Ron thing because she ended up becoming a lesbian with Lavender.

Luna.

Susan.

Hannah.

And Daphne.

Note that Pansy really didn't keep a lot of Slytherin friends around after the war. Mostly because they saw her as a cowardly blood traitor of epic proportions. Also because she thinks it's probably not a good idea to keep around people that might get drunk and say things to her boyfriend/fiancée/husband that they'd probably rather not say but not be able to take back because it'd be splashed across the front page the next morning.

That and she thinks that they're terrible, awful bores. Really, truly, if you want interesting conversation, you go talk to a Gryffindor. Or a mildly intoxicated Hufflepuff.

Weddings are one of those things that can bring out the best, and the worst, in people.

Pansy's wedding gives Hermione a purpose that she didn't have after Kingsley became Minister. She becomes the _best damn wedding coordinator ever _to the woman whose information and frantic pleas she once ignored and filed away in chronological order. She yells at the florist when Pansy is too busy pulling out her hair to do anything else. She makes the other members of the wedding party behave, makes sure there are plenty of mild pain potions on hand for the bride-to-be's recurring headaches, and does some mild transfiguration when the dress robes for the bride's side come out the wrong shade of light blue two days before the wedding.

Padma keeps Ron from complaining too vocally about Pansy's meticulous pre-wedding schedule. That alone makes her Pansy's second favorite person in the whole wide world…for about three months anyway.

Parvati smiles and looks pretty and is generally agreeable. Everyone agrees that this is probably the best course of action.

Luna, not surprisingly, spends most of her time at Hogwarts teaching her students about the mysteries of Divination. She snaps at her husband a lot, mostly because of his complaints that he wasn't invited to be a part of the groom's side of the wedding party, and ignores Pansy until it's absolutely, completely necessary. This isn't because Luna is a mean, snappish person, but because the bulk of the wedding planning comes during important parts of the school year and she has a hard enough time being taken seriously without wedding plans getting in her way.

Fortunately, after the wedding, she goes back to her sweet, dreamy self. Everyone but her husband appreciates the change. After all, the new Luna had been a whole lot more forceful in bed than the old one.

No one said that Theodore Nott Junior wasn't a tad bit kinky.

Susan and Hannah do what they're told. They never were really good friends with Pansy, they know this, she knows this. They're just there because they equal out the number of boys and girls. And because they're pretty. And, strangely enough, Pansy thinks it's what Neville would have wanted. She never questions her feelings when Neville Longbottom is concerned.

Daphne is a bitch. Stays a bitch. Doesn't stop being a bitch until she's nice and cold and buried many, many years later. But she's blonde and looks good in blue and she's always nice to have around for the occasional tea party.

Pretty much everyone ignores Daphne before, during, and after the wedding.

PT gets her revenge for her horrid, awful name by suddenly taking up the hobby of puking in Pansy's shoes and then rolling in it. Harry says it's probably because of all the stress of wedding planning and moving into Number Twelve. Pansy thinks her cat just hates her. None the less, PT gets to go stay with her Auntie Molly until after the honeymoon and bothers the chickens and chases the garden gnomes to her heart's content.

The wedding takes place in the pasture that was once the Parkinson family home. Mansion. Estate, really. Hermione hires some commercial Herbologist to create a fantasy garden out of the empty space. Lilacs and roses, foxgloves and cowslips. Really too many types of flowers for Pansy to name off of the top of her head.

No, I repeat, no pansies.

Because Luna, who only contributed one good thing to the wedding besides her presence, said that it was a good omen for the wedding to happen at night, it did. Ever since the war, when Luna, in a sickeningly sweet voice, told everyone the exact time and date that Lucius Malfoy would die, her prophecies weren't taken lightly. Even when they were just passing observations.

The space was lined with chairs filled with people who had become closer to Harry than any family he'd ever had. All the remaining Weasleys were there. Tonks and Lupin, with their three hell raising wolf cubs. Puppies. Fine, children damn it. Their three children with wild brown hair and sparking chocolate eyes and a way of shouting so that it sounded like howling. Somehow their parents managed to tie them down long enough to get them in expensive dress robes and sit them on three chairs between them. They were just lucky that their second cousin Draco was part of the wedding party and not babysitting, he would have paddled their butts red and then made them listen to their _cousin Hermione_ until she lectured their ears off.

Yes, 'Meda, Teddy, and Sirius liked their parents form of discipline much, much better.

Molly, with Hannah and Parvati's help, cooked enough to feed an army. Old habits die hart. Padma and Susan, with the help of Fred and Ron, maneuvered the wedding guests into their designated places and made sure the official overseeing the wedding didn't get wasted until after the wedding.

Charlie and George made sure that no one uninvited managed to sneak onto the grounds.

Harry relaxed with a gin and tonic and rehearsed his reception speech until he could recite it upside down and in too tight women's underwear. Thankfully, he did neither.

Pansy, as she did with most things important, completely and totally freaked out.

First her hair wouldn't curl right. Then her dress got cat hair all over it because Crookshanks decided it was the perfect place to take a nap. Then Rita Skeeter tried to sneak onto the wedding grounds and she broke out into a multitude of bright green pustules. Padma got morning sickness at four o'clock in the afternoon and announced to everyone she was nice and pregnant, causing Ron to pass out in a rose bush.

But, nearly four hours after that unexpected announcement, Pansy V. Parkinson, who was soon to become Pansy Parkinson Potter, would walk down the pretty silk-covered aisle in a gorgeous ivory wedding dress with a strapless corset top and skirt full of crinoline. With an armful of lilies, she walked up to Harry with a teary-eyed smile and a heart bursting with more love than she ever thought she was capable of feeling.

During her vows, she even remembered to apologize for vomiting on him the time he walked her back to her flat and making him late for his meeting with Skeeter. Even if he did completely and totally take advantage of it by not only _looking down her shirt _but also _inadvertently fondling her _while looking at her house key.

Really, truly, it was probably the most perfect wedding in a century. Just the way it was meant to be, after all.

Because, sometimes, even St. Potters and Slytherin Ice Queens get a chance at happiness. Even after dodging cursed Defense Against the Dark Arts professors and rescuing wayward best friends from warehouses half way across the world. Sometimes, after escaping idiotic marriage laws and dumbass Ministers of Magic and worthless flats full of too many books and not enough space, these things manage to work themselves out.

Sometimes, just sometimes, optimism wins out in the end.

Rita Skeeter may still get published by the Daily Prophet and the Cannons might still get their asses smashed into the ground on most occasions, but, good seems to win out more times than not. To be able to say this after the deaths of Bill, Fleur, Percy, Ginny, Neville, and so many other people that it's not even funny, it's a feat that the throat doesn't clog up with vomit trying to get those words out.

It's a world where Ron still plays with Cannons action figures, _or something,_ and Hermione and Draco host Saturday brunch at the Malfoy Manor every week with a bunch of mixed blood children screaming in the garden behind the kitchen. In this world, Ron and Padma somehow manage to escape the Weasley curse and only have one kid, Harry and Pansy start at one and work their way up to four. Lupin goes prematurely grey but, somehow, all his children end up with well paying, respectable positions in the Ministry and stop setting their _dear cousin Draco_ on fire _by accident_.

PT stops vomiting in shoes but does keep vibrating on men's laps; generally those that are boyfriends of Potter's daughters meeting the illustrious Harry James Potter and his lovely wife for the first time.

Not surprisingly, these boys tend to stick around the longest.

And, maybe, just maybe, it's a world where evil assholes get turned into goo and set on fire and that fact eventually, _fifty years later eventually_, get published in the history books for all the world to see.

Especially the part about the pissing. That's always been Pansy's favorite part of the story.

And for a girl that traded too strong screwdrivers for lazy mornings with a man with wild black hair and haphazard glasses, that has to say something for the state of the world.

So, while this might be a story of no consequence, I want you to say it with me one more time. _Harry James Potter_. If you say it fast enough, it almost sounds like Jesus. Okay, that's a lie, it sounds nothing like Jesus. Not even Hey-suez. But, this is the story of the Boy Who Lived and he really, really did live. So, you might as well as it one more time.

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**Note: **Originally, this was supposed to be a one shot. Something I came up with a little over a year ago on my way to class while I was in a funk and not wanting to listen in Honors Economics. And somehow one chapter became two…and eventually turned into seven. I can't say that the last six chapters were as good as the first, mostly because it's my favorite. And I don't know if the last three chapters were nearly as good as the first four. My muse has never hit me so hard, or so fast before. But, if even just one person enjoyed this, that wasn't me, then I guess it's worth it. Thanks for sticking it out with me, I really do hope it was worth your while.


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